Music floats in quietly from the other room. The girl sitting in her room typing covers her ears and wishes vehemently the musician would shut the hell up. It was damn annoying trying to think and type while Mozart's Turkish March wafted in uninvited and supplanted her thoughts.
The music finally stops. All falls to silence and the girl breathes a sigh of relief. But then the ticking begins. The clock on the wall -- clicking, clicking, clicking, every second, never stopping -- it was damn annoying. The girl stands up quickly and furiously, leaving the blank word processing page glowing in the dim orange light of the room, and rips the clock off the wall. She removes the batteries and settles down for some quiet time to think.
She types a few words, deletes them, ponders her conundrum, when talking reaches her ears. Hushed conversation from the hallway, discussing trivial and salacious things like who's sleeping with whom and what the latest celebrity news was.
"Shut the hell up, I'm trying to think, dammit!" the girl shrieks.
The voices fall to silence suddenly, startled by her outburst, but rise again in anger.
"Deal with it, asshole. You and your damn writing keep us quiet all fucking day. Why don't you just find a new damn place to write?"
"Why don't you find a new place to waste your life?" came the girl's reply.
"Waste my life? You're the one who never leaves her fucking room. You don't even have any friends, not to mention you're probably still a virgin," came a virulent response.
"Fuck off, assholes," replied the girl, "at least I'm not the one spending all night talking about who's fucking whom. Tell you the truth, I don't give a shit about your damn social world -- it's not like it will actually matter in the end, anyway."
"Dammit, Higgins, shut the fuck up already," replied one of the girls.
"After you," replied the writer.
"Fuck you," said one of the girls.
"Get in line!" shrieked the writer.
"I would if their was one," came another reply.
"Lesbian," yelled the writer.
"Asshole," came the reply, along with the patter of feet as the girls in the hallway, finally exhausted of the writer's vitriolic temper, leave.
"Finally," said the girl, "some fucking peace and quiet."
Sitting down and smoothing her night gown, the girl sits down and starts typing. As she types, she hears a noise -- something disturbing her quiet: not the clock, not the piano, not the girls -- then she realizes: it's the keyboard. Its incessant clicking with every letter she types drives her mad. In fury, she throws the computer across the room and sighs.
"So much for that. But hell, at least it's quiet," she says. She slips out of her gown and slides into her bed. As she slowly falls asleep, an owl out the window begins to hoot.
The music finally stops. All falls to silence and the girl breathes a sigh of relief. But then the ticking begins. The clock on the wall -- clicking, clicking, clicking, every second, never stopping -- it was damn annoying. The girl stands up quickly and furiously, leaving the blank word processing page glowing in the dim orange light of the room, and rips the clock off the wall. She removes the batteries and settles down for some quiet time to think.
She types a few words, deletes them, ponders her conundrum, when talking reaches her ears. Hushed conversation from the hallway, discussing trivial and salacious things like who's sleeping with whom and what the latest celebrity news was.
"Shut the hell up, I'm trying to think, dammit!" the girl shrieks.
The voices fall to silence suddenly, startled by her outburst, but rise again in anger.
"Deal with it, asshole. You and your damn writing keep us quiet all fucking day. Why don't you just find a new damn place to write?"
"Why don't you find a new place to waste your life?" came the girl's reply.
"Waste my life? You're the one who never leaves her fucking room. You don't even have any friends, not to mention you're probably still a virgin," came a virulent response.
"Fuck off, assholes," replied the girl, "at least I'm not the one spending all night talking about who's fucking whom. Tell you the truth, I don't give a shit about your damn social world -- it's not like it will actually matter in the end, anyway."
"Dammit, Higgins, shut the fuck up already," replied one of the girls.
"After you," replied the writer.
"Fuck you," said one of the girls.
"Get in line!" shrieked the writer.
"I would if their was one," came another reply.
"Lesbian," yelled the writer.
"Asshole," came the reply, along with the patter of feet as the girls in the hallway, finally exhausted of the writer's vitriolic temper, leave.
"Finally," said the girl, "some fucking peace and quiet."
Sitting down and smoothing her night gown, the girl sits down and starts typing. As she types, she hears a noise -- something disturbing her quiet: not the clock, not the piano, not the girls -- then she realizes: it's the keyboard. Its incessant clicking with every letter she types drives her mad. In fury, she throws the computer across the room and sighs.
"So much for that. But hell, at least it's quiet," she says. She slips out of her gown and slides into her bed. As she slowly falls asleep, an owl out the window begins to hoot.
